Joanna turned away.
‘We’ve retrieved her knickers,’ Barra said, ‘from over the wall where he must have chucked them along with the other shoe, but we haven’t found a coat.’
‘She probably didn’t wear one.’ Joanna had seen the girls shivering as they queued up to enter the clubs both here and in Hanley. She had stopped once and asked them why they suffered the cold. The girls had been quite happy to tell her: because it cost five quid to leave it in the cloakroom, queuing up to dump it in the cloakroom lost them valuable dancing time and the coat would probably be nicked if they left it while they had a dance. ‘Right.’ She didn’t need to tell Barra to bag the knickers up together with anything else they found and send them to forensics. It wasn’t necessary because Barra must have combed a thousand crime scenes before. The last thing he needed was Inspector Piercy breathing down his neck. ‘I’d like to take a quick look around the nightclub. Is the owner here?’
‘Yes. I saw him twenty minutes ago.’
‘How much does he know about what happened last night?’
‘I just said an alleged serious sexual attack on a minor. Naturally he insists as it happened in the car park it’s nothing to do with the club and he can’t help us. It’s for over-eighteens. Strictly.’
‘And Kayleigh’s fourteen.’
‘Poor kid,’ Barra said sympathetically. ‘She’s bound to be a wreck after this. She was probably heading that way before the assault. Now – well.’
They crossed the car park and approached the building, Mike striding at her side.
‘We’re going to get this guy,’ she said as they reached the door. ‘I just know it.’
He grunted. ‘Is that before or after your honeymoon?’
She almost, almost, responded: what honeymoon? Because now the case was all-absorbing and the wedding, even the disciplinary hearing tomorrow morning, was forgotten, but she stopped herself just in time, horrified by the answer that had arrived so automatically. She met Mike’s eyes with an expression of rising panic. She knew that he had spoken the truth this morning: that the job would always absorb her to the exclusion of all else, even Matthew. Worse still, Matthew knew it too. Bloody Sergeant Clever Korpanski had even been uncomfortably near the truth about Matthew wanting a trophy wife and two point four kids. She strode towards the entrance, quickening her pace. Korpanski opened his mouth to say something but she was leaving him behind. At a guess, knowing Mike, it would have been something cheerful and funny, but when he caught her mood he clamped his lips tight shut before a single word escaped. Instead, he gave her a ghost of a smile followed by an awkward, almost apologetic twist of his mouth.
Barra had already put the boards up outside the nightclub, inviting people to speak to the police following a ‘Serious Incident’. Date and time were there together with a hotline telephone number. Hopefully someone would recognize the man from the description that Kayleigh Harrison had given. Maybe the investigation would hit lucky and someone would even identify him. If he was a local man with a southern accent he would stick out a mile in this moorlands town which had not only an accent but also a vocabulary and grammar all of its own. People would know him. If, on the other hand, he was from outside the area, what was he doing in Leek at this time of year, so outside the holiday season and with roads which were frequently closed to traffic because of the weather?
It was different in the summer with an influx of seasonal holidaymakers who rented cottages in the Peak District, visited Alton Towers and the factory shops in the Potteries. But few visitors came to Leek in December except the extreme climbing fraternity, who found the challenge of The Roaches in snow and ice exciting and bought both their equipment and provisions in the town. But they were easy to spot. Healthy, hearty, noisy, muscular, tanned men and women wearing North Face, Berghaus and Gore Tex: people in big boots, thick socks and healthy strides. They wouldn’t be outside a nightclub raping a fourteen-year-old.
The manager of Patches was an American called Chawncy Westheisen. He was a bluff fellow, burly and over six foot high, with an impressive paunch. He greeted Joanna and Mike very cautiously. ‘I’m horrified to hear what happened,’ he said. ‘One of the reasons I came to Staffordshire from the Big Apple was to escape the violence. I had a club over there and we had a shootin’ one night. Two of my bouncers were badly injured. One never worked again. It upset me greatly,’ he said, leading them into his first-floor office. ‘Troubled me so much I came over to the UK to look for some sort of small townsville where I could open another club. I brought the name with me from New York. It’s been quite successful here as a drinking place – a couple of bars, a dance floor and quiet zones too. I learned that,’ he said, with a frank sweep of his blue eyes, ‘from my days in New York. You know what it’s like, Inspector. Places become fashionable and they make money and then so . . .’ He left the sentence hanging in the air; neither of the two police officers could quite have finished it.
Joanna’s mind was already asking questions. What then, she wondered? Had the shooting in the New York Patches been connected with a protection racket? Bribery? Drugs? What? Joanna looked at Mike and shrugged. She didn’t know. Neither did she have any idea whether it had any bearing on the assault on Kayleigh Harrison.
‘Quite, Mr Westheisen,’ she said briskly. ‘At least it’s a place where the youngsters can come without getting into trouble or heading into the city.’ Kindly she didn’t mention the couple of drugs raids they’d had at Patches in the last six months or the death of a young woman who had ‘chilled out’ on Dexedrine. They had tracked down the suppliers but catching a drugs supplier could be likened to cutting off the head of the Hydra. Two more appeared in its place. Then four. Then eight. “And then so”.
Westheisen had escaped without a conviction. The truth was that the local force found it easier to keep an eye on one nightclub than all the street corners, gyms or pubs – of which there were many – where transactions could be exchanged. But now Westheisen had a rape case to contend with, and that would be more tricky. All three of them knew that clubs had been closed down for less. This could easily be the end of his club. What responsible parent would want a daughter to come here now? And females are essential to attract the males. The club would gain a bad reputation – and slide slowly down the sinkhole. Maybe that was Westheisen’s “and then so”. Even though, after an event a club was probably at its safest – with everyone, including the police, on high alert.
OK. It was shutting the stable door but this is a fact of life. It’s what we all do.
Joanna stole a swift glance at Chawncy Westheisen. He was a wise and canny New Yorker. He would have worked all this out for himself by now. ‘Did you bring your family over here, Mr Westheisen?’
‘My partner,’ he corrected her. ‘We worked together in New York. His name’s Marvin Solfa.’
‘And was Marvin here last night?’
‘No. It’s often kind of quiet here on a Tuesday. Usually just one of us comes. Last night I drew the short straw.’ He seemed to think he needed to add something. ‘Marvin would have come in if I’d have asked him to, if it had gotten busy.’
‘Right. Did you see a young girl wearing a very short silver skirt last night? She had long, straight brown hair, silver shoes and a black boob tube?’
Chawncy was instantly wary. ‘How young?’
‘She’s actually fourteen.’
‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘At fourteen she would have been way too young for Patches.’
‘Girls can look years older than they are,’ Joanna commented.
‘I’ve owned a club for a long time,’ Westheisen said. ‘I know the score. I’d lose my license both here and in the States if I violate a law. She wouldn’t have got past me.’
‘Well, it looks as though she got past whoever was on the door last night,’ Joanna said waspishly. ‘She wasn’t wearing her school uniform, you know.’
‘I’d have asked for ID.’
‘Who was on the doo
r last night?’
‘A guy called Andrew Crispin. And he’ll lose his job if he let in a fourteen-year-old.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You don’t know that she was actually in the club, do you?’ It was a very optimistic attempt at clearing Patches of any involvement.
Nice try, Joanna thought. Aloud, she said, ‘Dressed like that she wasn’t out of doors all night.’
‘Was she wearing a coat?’
Joanna shook her head. ‘Not that we’ve found. I’ll need to talk to Marvin too at some point,’ she said.
‘Why? He wasn’t even here last night.’
‘We just do,’ Korpanski said and, looking at the meaty sergeant, well over six foot tall, Chawncy Westheisen didn’t demur. He satisfied himself with a mutinous look Joanna completely ignored.
‘Was it busy here last night?’
‘Yeah. More than usual. I guess it’s because it’s December. Christmas and all that. The kids – they want their seasonal romance.’
‘Right. I’ll need the name of everyone who worked here last night: the bouncer, the person on the door, bar attendants.’
Westheisen frowned. ‘I’ll need to take a look at the rota to see who was behind the bar.’ He chewed his lip. ‘We do run a membership system here,’ he said. ‘It’s possible she pinched another girl’s card and got in on that and Andrew simply glanced at it without checking properly.’
Joanna was anxious not to deflect the course of this investigation. Right now her priority was not to fall foul of Westheisen but keep him sweet and cooperative and dangling on the hook of losing his license. This should keep his memory alert so it retained any evidence. He might have useful information and she might need to go through his membership list. But to find the person who assaulted Kayleigh Harrison there were certain questions she must ask sooner or later.
‘Do you check ID when people become members?’
Westheisen nodded. ‘More than our license is worth if we get it wrong,’ he said, agitated now. ‘We have an obligation to check ID.’
‘Indeed you do. Do you mind if we take a look around?’
‘Not at all. I’ll be delighted to show you.’
He led them through the main dance hall with its long bar to the ‘quiet’ room and upstairs through the offices. Joanna noticed four CCTV cameras strategically placed. Patches was as good as it got for a small-town club in rural Staffordshire. ‘In summer we get the kids coming out from Stoke and round about too,’ Chawncy said proudly, over his shoulder. ‘Even Manchester once or twice.’
‘London?’
‘Hey.’ Westheisen laughed. ‘We’re getting a reputation but not that far afield.’
When they’d finished the tour Joanna asked for both the internal and external CCTV videotapes from the night before. Westheisen didn’t argue but made a showy gesture of handing them over. Joanna bagged them up. Some of the junior officers would love to sit and watch the skimpily clad girls strut their stuff.
They returned to the station and dropped them on Timmis’ and McBrine’s desks. It would make a change from their normal duties: moorland patrol, finding sheep that had strayed, rescuing over ambitious climbers, finding lost children, protecting the sparrow hawks, making sure campers’ fires didn’t spark off a major alert and even a spot of cattle-rustling. ‘Take a look at these,’ she said, ‘and see if you can pick Kayleigh Harrison out. She’s the one in a tiny silver skirt and black boob tube. See who she’s with, will you?’
The two officers looked at each other. ‘My dream job,’ Saul McBrine said with a grin. ‘Just don’t let my girlfriend know I’ve spent hours ogling girls in silver miniskirts and boob tubes. She’ll kill me.’
‘You’ll survive,’ Korpanski said, joining in the laughter with the two officers.
‘Come on, Mike,’ Joanna said. ‘Let’s get a couple of sandwiches from the cake shop and take a quick look at the tape from the outside camera trained on the car park. Then we must go down to the hospital and speak to our girl.’
THREE
She didn’t even look fourteen, was Joanna’s first thought. More like twelve. Lying with a white, terrified face; big eyes peering over the sheet. Her face was thin, drawn. Whatever she had looked like last night, in her silver skirt, tall heels, boob tube, et cetera, she was just a child, a frightened little girl. WPC Dawn Critchlow was sitting at the side of her bed, watching her but not speaking. She gave a terse nod as Joanna and Mike entered. Kayleigh opened her eyes even wider. ‘Hello, Kayleigh,’ Joanna said softly. She sat down in the armchair and faced the child.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy,’ she said, ‘from the Leek Police. I want you to tell me what happened last night. As much as you remember.’
Tears ran down Kayleigh’s face. She put her hands up to hide them but it did nothing. The girl scooped in a couple of deep, noisy breaths.
‘Please,’ Joanna said, ‘tell me what happened.’
The hands moved a centimetre down the face so the eyes met hers. But Kayleigh pressed her lips together – if anything more firmly.
‘If you were assaulted,’ Joanna said, ‘what happened to you could happen to another girl – maybe even worse. You were left to freeze. You could have died, Kayleigh.’
Slowly the girl slid her hands back to her side. Her eyes looked into Joanna’s with a trusting look that was painful. But Joanna did not shy away.
‘Would you like your mother or a social worker with you?’
It provoked a quick response. ‘No fear.’
Joanna gave Mike a quick glance before continuing. ‘Right. So. Tell me what happened, in your own words. Did you meet someone inside the club?’
Kayleigh shook her head and Joanna twigged. ‘He got you in, didn’t he?’
Kayleigh bit her lip and nodded. ‘He put ’is arm round me and sort of hid me from the bouncer. Inside he bought me a drink.’
‘What did he look like?’
She looked panicked by the question, then blurted out: ‘He were tall and skinny.’
‘What was his hair like?’
‘Sort of spiky. It felt a bit sticky.’ She frowned. ‘I think it had gel on.’
‘What colour was it?’
‘Brownish, I think.’ She frowned in concentration.
‘What was he wearing?’
‘A sort of leather bomber jacket and jeans. They allow them on weeknights,’ she defended.
‘How old?’
‘About thirty or so. It’s hard to tell, really.’
‘Was he local – someone you knew?’
Kayleigh shook her head. ‘He had a London accent,’ she said. ‘And the way he talked, the things he said.’ She smiled and changed her voice. ‘“Oh dear, oh dear. Look what you’ve made me do – spill me drink”. ’ She met Joanna’s eyes. ‘That’s how he talked, Inspector.’
‘Do you remember anything else about him? Anything that might help us find him?’
‘He had big teeth,’ she said. ‘Big and yellow. Like a wolf’s, they were.’
Joanna looked at her closely. Kayleigh had very pale skin, devoid now of make-up, brown eyes, long, straight hair brushed away from her face. Dressed in a hospital nightdress she looked far too young to be having this conversation.
‘Can I have a word?’ She spoke to Dawn Critchlow and they went outside the door. ‘You have all the swabs and samples?’
Dawn nodded. ‘Poor kid,’ she said, eyes drifting towards the porthole in the door. ‘It was pretty ghastly. I thought she’d have wanted her mum there at least – but no.’
Joanna then went to speak to the doctor in charge of Kayleigh’s case, who turned out to be an elegant Indian lady in a dark red sari by the name of Dr Rani Bopari.
‘She is lucky to be alive,’ the doctor said. ‘Her temperature on admission was twenty-nine degrees. Below twenty-five and she would probably have died. We would not have been able to save her.’
‘Does she have any other injuries?’
‘Internal bruising, a labial tear, some b
leeding too.’
‘So, rape?’
She gave a wise smile. ‘You cannot draw me on that, Inspector. Rough sex but I don’t know whether it was rape or consensual.’
‘Was she a virgin before this?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Was she drugged?’
‘I believe your police surgeon has taken some samples for toxicology,’ Dr Bopari said. ‘You need to wait for those results. I could not say for sure with exposure to such cold and the alcohol.’
Joanna’s ears pricked up. ‘How much alcohol?’
‘The equivalent of a bottle and a half of wine,’ Dr Bopari said without smiling. ‘She still had a high level of alcohol in her blood this morning. We’ve had to work it out backwards using a graph. It’s not completely reliable – you know that we all metabolize alcohol differently – but it’s as close as we can get. She’s fourteen years old. My guess is that last night she was pretty drunk. And again,’ she said, the smile returning, ‘you will need to wait for the results of the blood tests. The swabs and things will take a bit longer.’
‘Swabs and things?’
‘There was no semen,’ Dr Bopari said, frowning now, ‘he probably used a condom, but we might still be able to get DNA and we must obviously test for STDs.
These are what we are looking for,’ she enlarged. ‘Gonorrhoea, Chlamydia, Trichomonas, Herpes. HIV.’
Joanna flinched. It was a grim picture, this bald truth about the reality of rape. ‘I see. Well, thank you.’ Joanna handed the doctor a card with her telephone number on it. ‘If you have any more information that will help us, please don’t hesitate to pick up the phone.’
‘I won’t,’ the doctor said.
Joanna returned to the room. This was the difficult bit. ‘Kayleigh,’ she said. ‘In your own words I want you to tell me exactly what happened to you last night. Everything.’
The girl blinked, wiped her hair away from her face and looked at Joanna. ‘You know what happened,’ she said.
‘No, we don’t, Kayleigh.’
The girl stared up at the ceiling and made no response until Joanna prompted her. ‘When did you first notice him?’
A Velvet Scream Page 3
