by Graham Smith
‘What is it, ma’am?’ As fearful as she was of getting a bollocking from O’Dowd, Beth had learned that the best way to deal with the DI’s capricious moods was to front up and face the music.
‘Press conference at five.’ O’Dowd reached into the printer. ‘The brass are running scared so I have to take it and, quite frankly, I’m not of a mind to face that pack of wolves alone.’
Beth couldn’t believe what she was hearing; she’d never attended a press conference before, and to have to go into her first unprepared, and while investigating a crime with so few leads, couldn’t end well. If the brass were throwing O’Dowd to the wolves, the DI was doing the same to her.
‘Surely DS Thompson would be a more suitable companion? He’s more senior than I am, both in age and rank.’
‘Bugger.’ O’Dowd withdrew her hand from the printer. It was covered in black ink and she scowled at the printer as if it would apologise to her. ‘He is. But look at him, he’s exhausted, literally running on empty. Both physically and emotionally. One wrong word from a reporter and he’s likely to give them a piece of his mind. That can’t happen when the cameras are rolling.’
‘Cameras rolling?’ Beth shot a look at O’Dowd. ‘So we’re going to be filmed telling the world we haven’t got a clue who killed those four women. That’s just marvellous, bloody marvellous.’
‘Aye well, some things are what they are. It was either you or Unthank, and the way he’s been lately, I can’t trust him not to try and shag that new reporter from the News and Star.’
Beth got what O’Dowd meant. The new reporter wasn’t above batting her eyelashes to get what she wanted, and Unthank had reacted to breaking up with his fiancée by trying to jump into the bed of any woman who spoke more than four words to him. If the two of them were left alone in each other’s presence for any length of time, it was a racing certainty he’d end up being teased into feeding her titbits about the investigation.
‘With due respect, ma’am, a wee heads-up a bit sooner would have been nice. You know, a chance to run a brush through my hair or at least put some lippy on.’
‘That’s precisely why I didn’t tell you sooner. I want you going in there with a sheen of sweat on your brow and a knot in your hair. Catching a killer is hard work and I want you looking like you’ve been working hard, not preparing for a bloody date.’
Beth pulled a face at the DI’s back as the printer rattled and clacked into life. The first sheet it spat out was handed to her by O’Dowd. ‘Here, that’s from the press officer. It’s a list of non-committal phrases he deems acceptable. Have a deeks at them and memorise as many as you can.’
‘Isn’t he going to be there?’ Beth took the sheet of paper and started looking at it as instructed.
‘He’s on a course.’
‘A golf course, do you think? It’s ridiculous. This is his job, not mine.’
‘That’s enough, Beth.’ O’Dowd’s tone was as hard as Beth had ever heard it. ‘I don’t like it either, but we have to do the press conference. Me as the detective inspector, and you as the bright young thing working her backside off to get a result. Your past results have earned you a certain amount of credit with the press and today’s the day we’re going to spend it. You’re to stick to the stock phrases, keep your temper and trust me to field any nasty criticism that comes our way.’
‘So, basically all you need is for me to sit there doing nothing?’
‘No. I want them to see the fire in your eyes, to get a sense of your determination to get a result. I want them to realise how smart that sideways-thinking brain of yours is when you put it to good use. Whether you like it or not, you’re on a career trajectory. Sometimes you’ll get handed the shitty end of the stick and the way you either grasp it or let it fall to the ground will define your career.’
Rather than answer, Beth turned her back on O’Dowd and started to scan the trite, meaningless phrases issued by the press officer.
As much as she was angry with O’Dowd for the way the DI had forced her into attending this press conference, she knew that O’Dowd’s reasoning made logical sense. She also recognised that a layer of flattery had crept into the argument.
This was the reason she’d turned away from the older woman. Whenever the slightest blush fed onto her face, the scar on her left cheek appeared to whiten and give away her emotions.
When she’d read the stock phrases twice she balled the paper and tossed it into a bin. To hell with the press officer and his non-statements. If she was asked a direct question, she’d give the straightest answer she could without giving away any details of the case.
Thirty-Seven
Derek Forster tied his laces and sat back in his seat to think for a few moments about the forthcoming evening. As well as all the details that would need to be ironed out about the charity he intended to establish, he also wanted to make a good impression on DC Young. She was the perfect wounded puppy to front the publicity he wanted to generate for the charity. Coupled with the defining scar on her face, she had passion by the bucketload and if he could find a way to harness that and her inbuilt drive, then this new charity may well be the thing which got him a seat in parliament, or even the House of Lords.
It didn’t matter to him how she’d picked up the scar, it just mattered that she wore it like a badge of honour. Most of the women he knew would have vainly tried to disguise the remains of the wound. A few strands of hair hanging down the face or a layer of thick make-up were the obvious solutions, but DC Young did neither. The scar changed colour with her mood, and when she was fired up, the scar would flare white.
Her being an otherwise beautiful woman made the scarring seem even more tragic to him. The amount of inner strength she’d presumably used to come to terms with the injury and its lasting effects was unknown to him, but he marvelled at her fortitude.
He knew he’d stared at her scar when he’d first met her, but she’d ignored the lapse in manners and kept her focus on the matter at hand.
Forster knew that he’d only scratched the surface with her, but from what he’d seen, he’d learned that she was very smart, determined and imbued with a passion for justice that he’d rarely witnessed in anyone before. The word ‘driven’ was bandied about a lot, but in the case of DC Young, it was the best word he could think of to describe her.
As he climbed to his feet and patted his pockets to check for his car keys, Forster was trying to work out what attracted him to her the most. Her brain, her strength or the way she looked.
It was only as he gunned the engine of his Range Rover that he realised what was really driving his feelings. It was the simple fact that she wasn’t one of the women that thrust themselves upon him. DC Young carried the indifferent air of the disinterested. She’d admitted that she was single, and while there was a considerable age gap between them, he’d dated younger women than her before.
DC Young not showing attraction to him was the key to his feelings. She was a challenge. If he could bed her, it would be an experience far better than sleeping with the women who offered themselves to him without any qualms.
Seducing her wouldn’t be easy. It would take tact, charm and more than the odd nice dinner.
He could play the long game. After all, the longer the chase, the sweeter the kill.
Thirty-Eight
Beth walked into the Stoneybrook Inn and cast her eyes around the room. Forster was sitting at the bar and Tattoo Neck was nowhere to be seen, not that she expected him to be here. The mayor was engaged in conversation with the barman, but his body was half turned so he could survey the room and keep an eye on the door.
His hand raised in a wave when he saw her.
As she’d expected he was well turned out. The shirt he wore was a designer one and it was crisp with a sharp collar, his tan chinos a good match for his shirt, and the cologne he wore was strong and manly.
He’d made an effort.
So had she, after a fashion. By the time she’d got home after th
e press conference and a short yet blistering reprimand from O’Dowd, she’d had forty-five minutes to shower, dry her hair and throw on some clothes.
Beth had spent little time deciding what she should wear and had gone for practicality over fashion. The weather had turned humid and as she’d spent most of the day perspiring, she’d grabbed a long skirt and a fitted T-shirt. Normally she would have preferred to have worn a shorter, knee-length skirt but she didn’t want Forster getting the wrong idea, so she’d picked a floral one that hung to her ankles. The one concession she made to fashion over comfort was a pair of wedged sandals.
When she saw the way Forster instinctively slid his eyes down her body, she was glad she’d went for demure rather than cool. He was a predator and she knew that she’d have to keep her wits about her if she was to avoid becoming his prey.
‘I see you’ve come prepared.’ Forster pointed at the folder which hung from her left hand, then at the briefcase perched against the leg of his barstool. ‘Me too.’
As one of the waiting staff showed them to a table, Beth glanced round the room. A former coaching inn, Stoneybrook Inn had morphed into a bar and restaurant. Sited a mile north of Penrith, it survived by serving up good food at reasonable prices. It might never win a Michelin star, but it was homely and had a friendly atmosphere which enticed customers to return on a regular basis.
Forster took the menu offered to him by a young waitress wearing a branded T-shirt and skinny jeans. ‘Shall we order first and then talk business while the chef does his stuff?’
‘Sounds good to me.’ Beth ordered herself a glass of iced tap water from the waitress, along with a glass of house wine. ‘Is that the voice of experience speaking?’
Forster gave an easy smile and a self-deprecating shrug. ‘You got me. I’ve had many a dinner meeting and I’ve found it best to order first then talk shop. We can also get a bit of thinking space as we eat each course.’
‘That makes sense.’
Beth fell silent and looked at the menu. It wasn’t that she was deciding what to have: she had no intention of having anything more than one course, and it was too hot for anything more than a salad anyway.
Now that she was here with Forster she was torn by differing emotions. If he was serious about setting up the charity, then he deserved plaudits, but what if he was using it as a smokescreen to get close to her so he could learn about the investigation, or indeed to mask his own guilt for whatever he’d done to instigate the framer’s campaign against him?
She couldn’t quell her suspicions about the mayor being a player, largely because of Forster’s propensity to surround himself with good-looking women. The three secretaries in his mayoral office were all attractive, as were Claire and Inga. And the picture she’d seen of Donna Waddington, who’d left SimpleBooker to found EdenData, had shown her to be quite beautiful.
Then there were his girlfriends. The women he’d dated and those he associated with. Louise Jones too. All of them were attractive.
It made her wonder at his interest in her. Objectively Beth knew that she had once had a pretty face, although the disfiguring scar on her cheek had changed that.
After her thoughts were interrupted by the waitress taking their order, Beth wondered how Forster saw her. As a pretty trinket to be seen at his side during fundraisers and recruitment drives for the charity, or was the scar on her cheek actually the real reason he wanted her involved?
So far as she was concerned, the scar portrayed her as a survivor, but to a politician like Forster, she assumed it would be seen as a badge of victimhood. If she became the public face of a victims’ charity, many, if not all who saw her might assume she was a victim of rape.
She knew this would be a burden she’d have to carry alone, but it would be worth it if Forster was serious about making it easier for women to report their rapists and feel confident that their attackers would face imprisonment, while also providing shelter and counselling to help them through their ordeal.
‘I’m sure that you can’t talk to me about your investigation into the person who’s behind the murders and planted what I’m sure are disgusting images on my computer, and I’m not going to put you in an awkward position by asking you about them, but I will say that I saw you on the news.’ Forster gave an approving nod. ‘You certainly made quite an impression when you called out that reporter for his stupid question.’
‘What did he expect? I mean, who puts a deadline on an investigation?’ Beth shrugged and thought back to the swearing O’Dowd had given her for the way she’d lambasted the man who’d asked if the killer would be caught the next day while ignoring his more troubling question about why none of the first three murders had been connected before Felicia Evans’s body had been found.
After fielding the majority of questions put to her during the press conference with ease, a piercing question had caught Beth off guard and as she was recovering her poise the foolish reporter had made his move. Despite the nudges then kicks O’Dowd had delivered to her ankle under the table, Beth hadn’t been minded to stop unloading her frustrations at the lack of real progress with the case onto the hapless reporter. She’d pointed out the effort they were all putting in, the way there were no restrictions on resources or budget and that despite all their hard work, there were very few leads to pursue.
O’Dowd had ended the press conference once Beth fell silent and as soon as they were alone she’d had a rant of her own. The only way Beth had been able to defend herself was to point out that her rant had saved them from having to answer the one question they’d been dreading would be put to them: why didn’t a senior officer with a countywide overview pick up on the similarities between the murders sooner?
Nobody ever wants to make public criticisms of a superior’s failings in a hierarchical system, but the question had been asked, and neither Beth nor O’Dowd had been able to offer either a convincing answer or a reasonable deflection.
Beth hadn’t lied to O’Dowd by claiming the rant was a deliberate tactic to get them off the hook they were on, but she had pointed out that it had been a handy side effect. Another future benefit was that it was unlikely she’d be invited to speak at another press conference anytime soon.
‘I have to say, I thought you were very impressive. The way you conducted yourself when you were quite clearly furious was nothing short of brilliant. You put that man in his place and let the world see your determination to solve the case. But more than that, you showed how fired up you are, how the case is personal to you. As a member of the public, it was uplifting to see that kind of zeal in a police officer. Too often these days we hear about coppers spending half their time on diversity courses or filling in forms. You showed them a stressed but determined frontline copper who’s intent on solving a case.’
‘Really? I was worried I came across as someone who’d lost the plot.’
‘Quite the opposite. I saw that same zeal when you rounded on me the other day. That’s why I want you involved in the charity we’re here to discuss.’
He fell silent as the waitress appeared with their meals.
‘Thank you.’ Beth cast her eyes across the room, afraid to look directly at him. She could feel the blush on her cheeks as the waitress put Forster’s starter in front of him.
As he ate, Beth composed herself as best she could. Forster was a slippery manipulator and she knew the flattery he’d laid on her was designed to lower her defences and bring her onside. She also had to consider the way he’d said he wouldn’t ask about the investigation; that was reverse psychology if ever she’d met it. He’d stated his position in the hope she’d throw him a few crumbs out of respect for his understanding.
As she watched him spear his food, she knew she’d have to keep her guard up against his wily manipulations. He appeared as if he was acting without thought, that everything he said was genuine, yet there was no denying that he was pressing the right buttons at every point in the conversation.
When he’d arranged his k
nife and fork on the plate and dabbed his mouth with a napkin, she threw him a bone to make him think his ploys were working. ‘I spoke with the team at SimpleBooker today; they didn’t know who might want to target you and I didn’t get the impression any of them would want to.’
‘I didn’t think they would either.’
‘I also managed to track down the lady who called herself Lorraine, and I’m confident it’s not her or anyone who might be connected to her either.’
‘I see.’ Forster scratched at his forearm and revealed an expensive-looking watch. ‘Is that good or bad news?’
‘Both. Good for her that we’ve eliminated her as a suspect and bad because it’s the last half-decent lead we had.’
‘So what next?’
‘Next we talk about the charity. I’ve told you all I can, Mr Mayor.’
‘That’s fair enough. I appreciate that you’ve told me anything at all. Please though, call me Derek. If we’re going to be working together, we don’t need to be so formal, do we?’
‘No, we don’t.’ It was there again: asking her permission to be less formal was just another of his ways to inveigle himself into her good books. ‘I’m Beth.’
Beth spent the next twenty minutes listening to Forster’s vision for the charity. She knew nothing about how charities were set up or run, but he seemed to have a clear idea about the administration side of things. She liked the majority of his ideas and the desire to do good that was fuelling them, but there were some areas where she felt his thoughts were off base.
‘Can I just stop you there? What you’re saying about creating an environment where women can feel confident about reporting their sexual assaults is great in theory, in practice it’s not that simple. The police have trained officers for that as well as counsellors. Not only would you be duplicating what’s already in place and working as well as it can, you’d be asking the victims to go through everything with the charity as well as the police. I think that may be too much for a lot of women. I’m the first to admit I’m no expert on the subject, but I do know a lot of rape victims blame themselves, that they’re sure the defence lawyers will paint them as some kind of slut for wearing a short skirt or a low-cut top. Many rapes also happen in a domestic setting over a period of time. The women are afraid to escape because they have no money or because they love, or have loved, their rapist. Again, these women, wrongly, often blame themselves for not having a libido that matched their partner’s.’
