by Bill Rogers
‘Deflect to whom?’ she said.
He leaned forward, and looked past her down the row of officers and media advisers.
‘Who’s that, next but one, the attractive Assistant Chief Commissioner?’ he whispered.
‘Helen Gates. She took over from Martin Hadfield when he retired last month, Boss. I thought you were in the observation room with her when I interviewed the Operation Hound suspects?’
‘I must be losing it,’ he said. ‘I knew I’d seen her somewhere before. I’m surprised I didn’t recognise her straight away. Anyway, to answer your original question, that’s who to deflect them to, ACC Gates.’
Jo was about to reply, but Helen Gates tapped her water glass several times with her biro. Gradually the hubbub in the room subsided. Lights appeared on video cameras. The hush was charged with expectancy. The senior press officer began by thanking everyone for coming at this time in the evening, introduced the panel and explained the procedure.
‘This investigation is being coordinated and led by the National Crime Agency, in conjunction with the Greater Manchester, Lancashire, and West Yorkshire Police Forces. Greater Manchester Police have provided a Major Incident Room in the North Manchester Divisional Headquarters next door. Assistant Chief Constable Helen Gates will take all questions regarding policing logistics. Deputy Director Harry Stone will respond to those relating to the role of the National Crime Agency. All questions regarding the current progress of the investigation should be addressed to Senior Investigator Joanne Stuart.’
She paused and looked around the room at the seasoned hacks, and the keen young bloods straining forward like greyhounds in the traps.
‘You have all been given a briefing sheet and a prepared statement. We will now take questions. This will be followed by an appeal to members of the public with which we need your assistance. Now, who would like to go first?’
A sea of hands appeared. The press officer pointed to one at the front.
‘Dave Grice, BBC North West,’ the reporter announced. ‘SI Stuart, can you confirm the number of young women who have been abducted and raped by this man?’
Jo leaned into the microphone.
‘We have reason to suspect that five young women have been victims of the same perpetrator.’
‘Over what period of time?’
‘Fifteen months.’
‘So you’re investigating a serial rapist?’
‘We believe so, yes.’
‘What makes you think it’s the same man?’ asked a woman from one of the broadsheets.
‘The modus operandi.’
‘Which is what exactly?’
Helen Gates signalled to Jo with her hand, and simultaneously leaned forward.
‘We will only answer that in general terms,’ she said.
‘What, where and how would be a start,’ one of the journalists muttered.
It was greeted with murmurs of agreement from his colleagues.
The Assistant Chief Constable looked sideways at Jo. Her expression warned her to be careful.
‘Go for it, Jo,’ Harry Stone whispered.
Jo took a deep breath.
‘To date,’ she said, ‘the crimes we’re investigating have all been committed in university towns and cities in the North West of England, on Friday and Saturday nights between midnight and two o’ clock in the morning. The victims have either been in a party, or with one or two friends from whom they have become separated. All of the victims have had a significant amount to drink prior to their disappearance, but we believe that their drinks are likely to have been spiked.’
‘Significant amount?’ said one of the TV reporters. ‘Are you implying that the victims were culpable in some way?’
‘Absolutely not!’ Jo replied firmly. ‘To quote the Operation Talon website, “Drinking Is Not A Crime – Rape Is!” ’
‘But you don’t deny that drink was a contributory factor?’
‘Yes, I do deny that. What a woman drinks or wears has no bearing on the act of rape. Neither is it an invitation to be victimised.’ She held up a hand to forestall a response. ‘I agree that anything that is likely to make a woman or a man more vulnerable to sexual assault should be avoided. For example, accepting lifts from strangers, including taxis that haven’t been booked by telephone; walking home alone in the dark; becoming intoxicated with alcohol or drugs such that your senses are seriously impaired. But none of these things can be used to attribute any responsibility to a victim of the abhorrent crime of rape. To do so would be to become an apologist for rape.’
‘Well done,’ whispered Stone.
An ITV reporter was selected.
‘ACC Gates, if these crimes began fifteen months ago,’ he asked. ‘Why have you waited until now to call in the National Crime Agency?’
‘Firstly, because there were twelve months between the first and second abductions. Secondly, it was only within the past month that these were designated as serial offences. Thirdly, because both Lancashire Police and my own force have dedicated teams for serious sexual offences. And finally, because it is only in the past week that the perpetrator has been active outside of this region.’
‘And what exactly is a National Crime Agency takeover going to add to the investigation?’
Everybody stared at Harry Stone. He leaned into the mike.
‘I’d like to stress from the outset that this is not a takeover. This is a joint operation coordinated by the National Crime Agency. You have already heard about the existing expertise of the dedicated sexual offences units in this region. They will continue to work on this investigation. However, between them they currently have ongoing investigations into over two thousand alleged sex offences against children, and a thousand allegations of rape.’
There were gasps around the room as reporters checked with each other that they had heard correctly. Stone hurried on.
‘Clearly, under these circumstances any additional resources would be advantageous. The National Crime Agency has already committed additional staff in the Major Incident Room, and the expertise of our Behavioural Science Unit staffed with intelligence analysts together with senior investigators, including SI Stuart.’
‘Are we talking profilers?’ someone shouted from the back of the room.
‘Forensic behavioural psychologists,’ he replied.
‘So have you got a profile yet?’ someone else shouted against a general clamour for the details. Jo had seen this kind of reaction before, whenever mention was made of a profiler. It almost always derailed a press conference, something she had been dreading.
The press officer stood up.
‘Unless we’re able to continue in an orderly manner, with questions directed through me to members of this panel, then I’m afraid we will be unable to take any more questions.’
A hand shot up. It was a reporter from one of the tabloids.
‘Larry Hymer, Manchester Evening News. I have a question for Mr Stone.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Do you have a profile yet?’
There was a chorus of approval from his colleagues.
Poker-faced, Harry Stone leaned forward.
‘No comment.’
Another hand went up.
‘Is it true he tattoos his victims?’
‘No comment.’
‘Only we’ve heard he tattoos them with the image of a bird of prey. Is that true?’
‘No comment.’
Jo tried to see who had asked the question. She’d always known that it was a matter of time before that detail was leaked to the press. The problem was that this was going to boost the unsub’s vanity and feed his craving. Not only that, but it could lead to copycat offences that would only serve to cloud the investigation.
‘Maybe he keeps birds of prey,’ joked someone. This led to a flurry of asides.
‘Maybe he’s a birdwatcher?’
Several of the reporter’s colleagues laughed nervously. The majority of them looked uncomfortable. A woman
turned towards him and shouted ‘Shame!’
Before Jo had time to think, she found herself responding.
‘If anyone here,’ she said, ‘believes that this is a subject for humour, then I invite them to come with me to meet some of the victims, and to hear first-hand the life-changing impact of these horrific crimes.’
Helen Gates whispered to the press officer, who leapt to her feet.
‘I will now call on Senior Investigator Stuart to make a direct appeal to the public.’
Jo took a deep breath and picked up the card on which the appeal was written, more for reassurance than anything else; she had already committed it to memory.
‘We are asking any young woman who has been approached by a stranger in any of the North West and West Yorkshire university towns, perhaps offering to give you a lift home or to a hospital or to walk you home, especially if they have attempted to force you into a vehicle, to ring the following dedicated numbers where your call will be taken in strictest confidence by one of our specialist officers. Those numbers are as follows.’
She read them out slowly, while at the same time they appeared on the screen behind the panel.
‘Alternatively, you can ring CrimeStoppers on 0800 555 111. The information that you provide will be sent anonymously to our Major Incident Room. You can also provide the information anonymously using the online form on the CrimeStoppers online website at www.crimestoppers-uk.org.’
More hands shot up. The press officer stood up.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she said. ‘And thank you for your cooperation in ensuring that this appeal reaches the widest possible audience. You will all be kept informed of future developments as they arise. In the meantime, please direct all related enquiries through the press office. Good afternoon and thank you again.’
The panel stood as one and began to file out before any of the reporters could accost them. Stone whispered in Jo’s ear, ‘You’re a natural.’
‘Thanks, Boss,’ she said. ‘Thank God it’s over.’
She heard him sigh.
‘If only,’ he said.
Chapter 11
The debriefing took ten minutes. Jo brought Harry Stone up to date, and then joined Gerry Sarsfield and the Incident Room Manager.
‘There is one action I’d like to propose,’ she said, ‘but it’s going to require the cooperation of all three Forces.’
‘Go on,’ Sarsfield sounded apprehensive.
‘Automatic number plate recognition. I’d like ANPR cars patrolling areas around universities during the window in which we believe that he operates. Midnight till three am, Fridays to Sundays.’
The DI frowned. He led them over to the board on which a large map of the region had been attached.
‘Red pins denote the previous known sighting of each victim,’ the Incident Room Manager explained. ‘Blue pins mark the location at which each victim was discovered, green pins the victim’s universities, brown pins all of the remaining universities.’
‘There are twelve universities in the North West,’ said Sarsfield. ‘Five in West Yorkshire. Most of these have multiple campuses. That’s a minimum of seventeen cars. And what if he decides to spread his wings?’
‘The universities tend to be close to each other,’ Jo pointed out, ‘and we’re only talking five cities and two rural communities. What if we concentrated on those universities in the region where he has not yet struck – that would narrow it down to just eleven?’
‘Just eleven?’
‘One in Cumbria, three in West Yorkshire, five in Merseyside, and two in Greater Manchester. But since neither Cumbria nor Greater Merseyside are involved as yet, that would leave only five.’
Sarsfield pursed his lips, as though he’d bitten on a lemon.
‘I can try, but you know what they’re going to say?’
Jo nodded. ‘Scarce resources, needle in a haystack, come back when you’ve got a better idea of what you’re looking for.’
‘There you go then.’
‘I see one problem,’ she admitted. ‘We don’t know what to tell them. Normally we’d be talking about a van, a covered pickup or an estate car with tinted windows. All of his victims have been small enough to hide in the trunk of a Nissan Micra. The only forensics we have relate to GM Vauxhall and Opel models, but they may not even be from the suspect vehicle.’
‘Sounds like you’re talking yourself out of it?’
Jo allowed herself time to think. Even if they turned her down, at least her proposal would be logged. If the worst came to the worst and he struck again before they caught him, they couldn’t say she hadn’t tried.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Go ahead and ask. And tell them we’re working flat out to try and identify suspect vehicles. And remind them that if nothing else, a marked car cruising around should work as a deterrent and reassure the public.’
It took another half an hour for her to log the reports of her interview with Hope Bellman and Veronique Akubilo, and her visit to Worsley Woods. It was ten past ten in the evening when she finished. She had been on the go for fifteen hours, and suddenly realised that the only food that she’d had was that sandwich ten hours before.
‘I’m off home,’ she told the Incident Room Manager.
‘I don’t blame you, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘You look . . .’ he pulled himself up short, ‘. . . exhausted.’
She smiled wearily.
‘Shit is the word I think you’re looking for,’ she said. ‘It’s also how I feel. Tell DI Sarsfield I’ll be at the Quays first thing in the morning.’
Five girls abducted and raped already, she reminded herself as the lift descended. He was not going to stop. At times like this, she’d work around the clock seven days a week if she could. There was no such thing as too early or too late, only too exhausted to continue. It was something that Abbie had never been able to understand. Something that had begun as a mild irritant, and developed into a festering sore.
Caton had drummed into her the importance of sleep during a major investigation. It gave your body a chance to rest, and your unconscious mind the opportunity to process everything. That was when moments of clarity occurred. When critical insights surfaced. When the blindingly obvious slapped you in the face.
The lift doors opened. A member of the Reception desk staff looked up and waved Jo over.
‘That bloke’s been waiting for you for over an hour.’
A man in a black leather jacket was seated on a couch, his back towards her. He was looking at something in his lap.
‘He’s one of those reporters who were at the press conference. Insisted on waiting. If you want to slip out while he’s not looking, Ma’am, I can give it five minutes and then tell him he’s missed you?’
‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘but I’ll see him on his way.’
He saw her reflection in the plate-glass window as she walked towards him, stood up, and turned to face her. The man was in his late thirties she guessed, tall with an athletic build, mid-blond hair cut in the angular fringe popular with professional footballers, blue eyes, designer stubble and an overconfident smile. He wore a blue sweatshirt under the jacket and skinny jeans. A black-and-silver scarf trailed across the back of the couch. He held an iPad in his left hand.
‘SI Stuart,’ he said, ‘I accept.’
She took a step back.
‘I beg your pardon?’
His smile broadened.
‘I accept your invitation to meet one of the victims. I think it could help with your appeal.’
Had she not been so tired, she might have told him to bugger off there and then.
‘Who are you?’ she said instead.
‘Sorry. Rude of me.’ He fished in his inside jacket pocket, produced a laminated photo ID card, and handed it to her.
Anthony Ginley. The photograph had been taken seven years ago. The same face, less the smile, the same designer stubble. According to the accreditation he was with Independent Press Consultants, UK Ltd.
‘
Never heard of them,’ she said, ‘or you.’
He smiled serenely.
‘No reason you should have. We’re all freelance investigative journalists. IPC UK handles our accounts. We sell our services and stories to the big boys for big bucks.’
‘Good for you,’ she said. ‘Now if you don’t mind, it’s been a long day.’
She turned to go.
‘What about it then?’ he said. ‘Your invitation?’
‘It was rhetorical. I’d have expected an investigative journalist to get that.’
‘Make a great story,’ he called after her. ‘It would harness public sympathy and help your appeal no end.’ His tone hardened. ‘I assumed you’d prefer to be there, but I can always talk to the victims without you.’
She turned to face him so that he could see the anger in her eyes.
‘You do anything that hinders this investigation, or causes any of those victims further distress, and I’ll make it my job to ensure that you regret it.’
His smile never wavered.
‘Is that a threat, SI Stuart?’
‘No, Mr Ginley,’ she said, ‘it’s a promise.’
The door to their Northern Quarter apartment block closed silently behind her. The residents’ management committee had been busy. The fifteen-foot ornamental tree that always dominated the central foyer had been adorned with twinkling white lights and topped with a star. Jo suddenly realised that she had forgotten that the season of peace, goodwill and ringing tills had arrived.
Under normal circumstances, she and Abbie would already have spent an evening exploring the Christmas Markets, strolling from stall to stall between Albert Square and The Shambles, drinking mulled wine, listening to the brass bands and carol-singers from the Royal Northern College of Music, and buying a new decoration for their own Christmas tree.
She walked wearily across to the floating stairway. The sound of her footsteps on the wooden treads bounced off the brick walls and steel columns, a hollow reproach that followed her to their apartment on the top floor. As she put her key in the lock, someone opened a door on the floor below. The muted strains of Wizzard’s ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday’ floated briefly around the mezzanine, ceasing abruptly as the door slammed shut.
